The Last Interpretation of Apocylapse
by Olhado
Summary: This is an end.
1. The first angel sounded

****

A/N: This is a re-write of Horde. It's been in my files since November. I was just too scared to post it. . . . Apparently that has changed for the moment.

Thanks to all the Evowriters, because they are beautiful, Crash for liking the first one, Morwen for being so unbelievably disturbed by the first one that . . . Well, words don't come to mind . . . and Nai for inadvertently giving me the idea to post this. It's not an intentional reaction to Readme.txt (which everyone should read) as a text, but me _posting_ it is. Hee hee hee hee. Anyway.

Prospectively PG-13 for violence.

There are many kinds of attractiveness. After all, a man may find a woman so un-namably ugly that he'll take any measure to avoid her company, for fear she might take fancy to one as handsome as he and follow him around. However, the woman is just as likely to think the man hideous, what with his broad shoulders and oversized brow-ridges, and merrily stalk an unassuming librarian or (insert individual here, depending on your preferences). Yes, there's attractiveness related to type . . . and not related to type. One may remember that geeks have been attracted to nerds, who are closely related, and prepped valedictorians attracted to punks, who are less closely related, and there must be a kind of attractiveness which spans that. That sort of attractiveness is bound to be difficult to define, but it exists. And there are more special, specific kinds of attractiveness, within types. A nerds may chase after thicker glasses than his own, or thinner ones. Or he might not pay attention to the glasses at all -- he may be far more interested in big green eyes, or smaller, sharper, brown ones. It's all very personal and preferential and while there might be an "ideal" of beauty within each type, there will always be some maverick who finds the opposite more attractive.

All that aside, there will occasionally be a person who doesn't seem to fit anyone's framework of attractive. Scott was one of these. His skin was a washed out grey, broken only by splotches of sepia that served as freckles, compensating for the fact Scott had never been out in the sun in his life. His eyes were sepia as well, flecked with black, and rather dull looking in most lights. His nose was long and as pointed as his chin and his cheekbones were high, giving him an older look than he should have had. His eyebrows were his finest feature – they were very straight and looked almost groomed.

His only hope as far as the female scene went was to have a very very fine personality.

Actually, there was one other hope -- live in an area so secluded, so cut off from fun normal practices like flirting and gathers and markets, that the females would scarcely know there was anything better than something like Scott.

And, fortunately for Scott, that was exactly what his situation was.

Unfortunately for Scott, there are also many kinds of boredom. There's the anxious sort of boredom when there's an enemy army cooking marshmallows outside while they wait for reinforcements. There's the comfortable kind of boredom when there's nothing good on the television, but the sun is high and warm and you have someone delightful to exchange "um, whaddya wanna do"s with. Then . . . there's the bored sort of boredom, where there really is nothing to do, not even solitaire, because you live in a series of little locked rooms connected by little locked hallways and you can only do anything when the dudes in charge decide you can and even then it's not very entertaining.

Unfortunately for Scott, that was also exactly what his situation was.

If it had only been Scott living in the series of locked little rooms, things would have been worse, though, so he did have the fact that there were not only other people in the other rooms, but female people in the other rooms, to be thankful for. The fact they weren't necessarily his type didn't matter -- who was he to complain when he wasn't quite sure about his type anyway?

It was also fortunate that Scott had never lived anywhere else and, thus, had no unfavorable comparisons to make. He was bored, but not desperately so. And if he couldn't talk to the other people at will, Group Time came fairly frequently and that was something.

At the moment, Scott was sprawled out on his bed, one massive hand dangling idly over the side, one too large foot flapping over the end in time to his heartbeast, and his dull eyes half shut as he hummed to himself. He was too tall for the bed, but hardly too wide -- he had large, protruding bones, but not much to cover them with. He didn't go hungry, but he burned things in his adolescent state very quickly and the room didn't have anything more exercise equipment related than the showerhead behind the very unlocked glass door, which, as Scott had been informed when he'd been a little younger, was not for bending. So, the only thing he could do in the room was pace, which he was quite good at from years of practice. 

"Doo dee doo," he said to the light fixture overhead (nothing Scott did could ever be referred to as singing), "I eat glue . . . I do eat glue, because of you, stupid. Sto-o-o-pid. Stupid. Oooo. Aaaaa, eeeeee, iiiiiii . . . what's the time?"

The light fixture wasn't inclined to answer so Scott scowled and tilted his head toward the digital display over the outer door. Almost Group Time, then. Almost time to make the always exciting little two second trek to the Group Room. You could tell it was special because, like Group Time, it was capitalized.

The Group Room was somewhat more spacious, but no less dull than Scott's own room. The walls were a certain grey-white (when Scott was younger, he used to try to blend into them) lit with soft light that didn't hurt the eyes, but didn't do anything exciting like flicker. Earlier, they had flickered sometimes, but they'd been replaced. Eventually, the faceless guys who ran the doors always replaced everything.

In the Group Room -- when it was the time -- all the kids Scott's age and a little younger would be leaning against the walls or sprawled or tentitively perched on the various chairs and couches, depending on the person. The number of people had been four for a long time . . . than five . . . than four again. The guys had brought a new kid in, than one kid hadn't been there any more. 

Anyway, sometimes everyone wasn't there and the faceless guys would always come in the Group Room so you could ask why one or another was missing.

The faceless guys, if you asked them, would sometimes tell you that the kid was sick or that she/he'd been moved to another set of rooms.

Sometimes they'd tell you that the missing beast had become a mutant.

Scott wasn't altogether sure what a mutant was. In the Learning (glorified computer text, really), he'd read that mutants were special older kids who needed certain kinds of help, so they wouldn't hurt themselves. That didn't sound pleasant and Scott suspected that he was going to become a mutant someday, because he already hurt himself sometimes when he was bored. It wasn't a particularly nasty kind of hurt -- it was just a nothing-boredom hurt, where you pinched yourself or scratched things that itched until they bled, then picked the scabs. He'd half wondered a few times whether he should mention his hurting to one of the faceless guys, but he was afraid they'd think he was a mutant and give him special help. 

Scott didn't want special help -- in the Learning, it was too vague and Scott had decided that anything that wasn't at least somewhat clear cut was dangerous. The Learning had said that being a mutant was something you were born as and that was how it was, but those that helped the mutants could help them be better and not hurt themselves, which maybe meant they'd give the mutant something interesting to do. Or . . . it could mean that they put him in a smaller room and wouldn't let him touch anything. Or tie up his hands so he couldn't scratch. Gag him so he couldn't gnaw. So on.

The buzzer went off in its usual loud and insistent way and the door opened and Scott stretched spasmodically and walked toward it, peering furtively around the corner as he sometimes did when he wanted to make things more exciting. As the hall was empty and only led one place, Scott quickly lost interest in the corner and just followed the hall.

It wasn't a long hall -- about the length of his room if he paced it twice -- and the Group Room was right at the end of it, door open for the moment, although it would close as soon as he went through. He went through, not paying much attention as that door shut and locked itself, and leaned against the wall immediately beside the door, as he usually did.

Forge slipped into the Room from another door quickly afterwards. Forge was very small in comparison to Scott. He had black hair that shone almost metallically even in the wan light and black eyes -- and glasses, very large glasses that gave his angular face a strange appearance. Forge always waved to Scott as soon as he came in and Scott would wave back. They usually talked quite a bit during Group Time and Scott liked Forge very much. Indeed, Forge was Scott's best friend. Even if he could out-think, out-talk, and out-do him in just about anything . . . in fact, maybe that's why he liked him.

"Hey, Scott," Forge said in his rapid voice as he crossed the room, his eyes flicking wildly and alertly at the still open doors, watching for the others, "Early again, you're always early. Bored? Me too. Not much to read, I mean, there's lots to read, maybe, but a lot isn't very interesting. I just finished 'Apolcylapse Rise' and I wasn't really impressed, you know?"

"What's that about?" Scott asked politely (often too restless to read, himself).

"Same old, same old. I mean, story's different, maybe, you know, end of the world, I haven't found much of that in the library files, but it's the same theme . . . ah, you said it once, you did? How did you say it?"

"I don't remember. Sorry, Forge." 

"Too bad, it was pretty good -- but, you know, this whole control motif . . . it's not all that, but all the ones that could be interesting are, ah, here's Jean! So Lance'll be last as usual, since Rogue left."

Forge waved at the newest figure as Scott slouched against the wall, waving as well, because Forge did. Jean was fairly tall, if not quite as tall as Scott, and pretty. Scott didn't have a stong concept of what a person . . . a girl person in particular . . . was supposed to look like, other than the bare basics, and not much of a concept of what was supposed to be pretty. Still, just because he wasn't quite sure why a boy couldn't be as starkly attractive to him as a girl didn't mean he didn't have a few more visceral impulses in his fifteen-year-old body.

Jean was pretty. She was lithely built with large eyes and long red hair that glimmered smooth and beautiful in complete contrast with Scott's hideous greyness. Rogue had been pretty, too, perhaps prettier, but she was eighteen and somewhat aloof (rather like Scott in that sense, to be honest) and hadn't been quite as . . . accessible. One could more easily dream about Jean -- Jean spoke to you sometimes.

Besides, she liked Scott, or seemed to. Maybe in a funny way, even -- like the "like" that was in the books at time, if only vaguely -- well, a lot of things were vague.

"Forge, Scott! How's it going? Dull as usual? Hey, don't answer . . . " She walked over with all the unaffected grace of . . . Jean. Casual, but very sharp. She had a laziness, almost, about her, in contrast to Forge's scattered intentness and Scott's confused indifference, that was not so much a sleepiness as a shielded astuteness. Scott remembered confiding to Forge with a little awe in his voice, when they were both younger, that he thought Jean knew everything. 

"I think I'm ready to become a mutant, myself," Jean continued, as only Forge and Lance generally dared make a breach in Jean's leisurely trains of thought (Scott didn't have the nerve) and Forge seemed occupied with a bit of something that had stuck in his shirt. "Anything to break up the air, but this is pathetic. How many times have we had this conversation? Eeeeeh, how much time do we have today?"

"Couple of hours," Forge jutted in, standing back upright and flicking something from his fingernail. "And they're loading some new Learning for us, (Scott hadn't known this) so we might have something to occupy us later . . . maybe some new music . . . speaking of music, Lance is awfully slow today, even for Lance . . . "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," was the inevitable mutter, as Lance always seemed to turn up right at the best dramatic moment. Forge liked to say that Lance actually hid by the doorframe and waited for his "cue." Scott wasn't so sure about that, but Lance did have a certain raw barb of a flair that Scott admired. The admiration was tinged with something almost like fear, though -- and Scott avoided Lance when he could, if only with his eyes. Lance was mean. Not mean in the villainous bwahahaha sense, but in the angry sense. Everyone in the Rooms was somewhat restless, perhaps Scott most of all, but only Lance was angry. He was a kicker, a fighter -- he alone had lived somewhere else besides the Rooms and perhaps he had made the unfavorable comparisons that Scott had wondered about.

Scott didn't necessarily think that gave Lance a right to talk how he did.

Lance raged some days, screamed, even. Said they were all stupid and passive -- responsive and nothing else. "You always talk about the same things, you're more borin' than this stupid place, you never do anythin'! You're lettin' them keep you down! That's not living, that's just existin' or somethin', why don't you ever talk about somethin' else? Like improvin' this stinkin' place we're in, or gettin' out!"

Scott tended to remember that particular diatribe -- Lance had been staring at him when he gave it. Lance thought he was the most passive of the group . . . another time, he'd called him a nothing on legs. Forge usually fought Lance, when anyone did. Forge was smarter than Lance, or at least, formed more of what Scott could recognize as an argument, but Lance liked to turn (or try to turn) Forge's smartness right back on him, saying that his intellect was just the fake lazy kind that kept him from doing anything. It was always about doing with Lance.

Truth, though, Lance didn't do anything but yell until he got tired of yelling.

Because there was nothing he could do.

That was truth, too.

The Rooms didn't open unless the faceless guys wanted them to. The Rooms were very solid, without window or crack or two way mirror. Even Scott occasionally got angry -- once, he'd tried to break the walls, tried very hard. He smashed into everything, trying to make a hole in the solidness and get out -- but nothing broke, except the lamp, which didn't reveal anything but darkness. That hadn't been real smart on Scott's part and the faceless guys hadn't replaced the lamp for a full week and wouldn't let him out into the Group Room. He had sat in the blackness, alone, and he supposed that was called a punishment. 

He hadn't had a fit like that since. He didn't like the darkness much and he hadn't learned anything from breaking anything, so there wasn't much use.

The halls never led anywhere but the Group Room and they were solid and the Rooms were solid. Lance could scream all he wanted, but he could only scream.

Lance was about middling height, and had a sheer thinness about him that looked emaciated. Scott wondered if he wouldn't eat the food until he absolutely had to and that was why. For whatever reason, Lance had no apparent muscle and if his face was not as pointed as Scott's, it was drawn and sickly and small boned, like the rest of him. Lance had all the fragility of a bird. His dark slit eyes flared with usual pique as he muttered inaudibly to himself (for show) and plopped down on the nearest couch, running his long skinny fingers through his dark brown hair, ignoring the rest of the group with a certain bitter ease.

Forge snorted and there was otherwise silence for a while, because they really had covered and tread and re-tread every topic possible in the last fifteen years -- even Lance had become too much of a fixture to be terribly interesting. A couple of weeks or so had worn off the novelty of his screaming and for all his antagonism, Lance never talked about that which would have been most interesting to the rest of them -- what was outside. 

Lance was also the musician of the group -- a thing he had presumably learned outside -- even if he couldn't do anything but sing. The instruments that made the strange and sometimes appealing sounds in the music files were not available to the group, like just about everything else.

Quietly, very quietly, Lance's singing and lyricism had put the rest of the group into a slow state of envy. Even Forge would admit that, even as he snickered that Lance wasn't half as good as he thought he was. He was just better than a bunch of kids who had never known "more than a few blank walls and trashily bland bits of art."

"Composing again, Lance? That's why you're late?" Forge finally asked, for the sake of sound.

"Better believe it, shorty," Lance sneered, staring up at the ceiling, "My masterpiece, not that it'll ever get out to anyone who'll appreciate it. They'll make sure of that. They'll break me, just like they broke all of you . . . or they can try."

Forge rolled his eyes at Scott, who nodded slightly. For all his comparative artistic ability, Lance was remarkably uncreative. "Let's hear it, Lance. Uncouth as we are, I promise our brains won't explode in our unworthiness."

"Pfffft." Lance only lounged deeper in the couch.

"Leave him alone, guys -- Lance wants to be one of them inner artists. To share his beauty with us would be to diminish its importance, you know," Jean drawled, walking to the couch directly opposite Lance and leaning her forearms on it. "That, and Lance's our worldly man. He knows too much. He'll destroy our innocence in his glorious self destruction."

"Are you making fun of me?" Lance asked in an intentionally-bored monotone. 

"Impossible, dear Lance -- I'm adoring you . . . from afar, from across this room, from the depths of my soul. Let us hear your composing, your manic twiddlings, my dear one."

Lance sighed and Scott knew he was going to accede defeat. Jean was impossible to resist once she didn't want you to resist. It was the way she sometimes spoke -- like you were the most important person in the world, even if she was just making fun of you. She spoke most often like that to Lance. Scott had wondered for a while if it was maybe Lance she liked, and not Scott. After all, Lance's skin wasn't grey and, although Scott was no judge, perhaps was pretty in his own male way. But, perhaps it was denial, he'd decided that Jean just liked playing with Lance because Lance thought so very much of himself and was easy to flatter. Scott wanted to nurture the idea of being liked a little longer.

"All right, but you won't understand it," Lance smirked reflexively.

His voice was rather good -- kinda a middling high and not half as barbed as one would think. Forge had a more piercing voice the very few times he'd cared to sing and Scott couldn't sing at all and Jean never did, if she could help it.

  


Rack my mind, rack my world

Beat the dust in hate unfurled.

I won't run, I won't hide,

I'll rip my soul and swift confide

The pain to the uttermost reaches of sky, 

Since only that will reach my eye.

And the enemy will scream into my face 

And I will laugh in hope's embrace.

The last atonal strains were swallowed by the wall and Forge had turned away from Lance. Scott was back far enough to see his expression -- he was trying to keep his face straight. The music had been all right, he thought, but he certainly hadn't understood the lyrics enough one way or the other to find them either funny or touching. Not that he'd ever ask Lance what it was supposed to mean, because Lance would only laugh at him.

Jean clapped leisurely, "Beautiful, my Lance. I engrave them on my heart . . . to fling as missles at these encroaching walls. You've changed my life."

Lance stared at her with an oddly conflicted expression. Then he smirked again and leaned back into the arm rest. "I tend to do that," he said haughtily, or tried to, as his voice cracked on "do."

Forge snickered a little too audibly and Lance sat back up, scowling. 

"Go ahead and laugh, Forge." His eyes narrowed and refocused on Scott, "What about you, statue? You think it's funny? You gonna tag along with your buddy, 'cause you ain't got nothin' to say for yourself?"

Scott froze up automatically, silently cursing the fact he couldn't blend into the walls -- because this happened all too often. "It's fine," he said slowly, scratching at a scabby patch on the back of his hand. 

"'Fine' -- you hear that, Jean? Fine."

"I hear it, Lance, and you'd back off if you knew what's good for you -- Scott's got a fire in him and he's gonna show you what's what."

Scott didn't like this, nor did Forge, who quickly and uneasily slipped over to Scott's side.

"Cut it out, Jean," he hissed between his teeth and it was Lance's turn to laugh.

"Stop protectin' him!" Lance swung off of the couch and stretched again, oddly menacing in his frailness. 

"He's the big guy, he can defend himself. Let's see that fire, man, why don't you show me what's what?"

It wasn't an issue of being hurt by Lance -- Lance didn't start fights, because possibly even Forge could hurt him badly. It wasn't even an issue of pride, which Scott didn't have an excess of. He wasn't sure what issue it was, perhaps merely one of confrontation, not liking the nasty kid snarling at him like there was something so vastly wrong with him . . .

"What is what?" Scott countered in an undertone, not sure what else to say.

"I wanna 'ear what you think of my song, Scott."

"I said it was fine."

"Why fine? Fine's noncomittal, man."

"I don't care."

"About my song?"

"Your song was . . . " he hesitated, fighting not to say "fine" again. " . . . interesting."

"Why, the lyrics, the tone?"

"The tone was nice, I liked the tone. Atone, rather, um, it was nice."

"That's real clever, Scott. Atone. Like the sound of that word?"

"Sure . . . " Scott didn't like the fiercer-fierceness in Lance's eyes, however.

"Why don't you ever react, Scott? You've got this funny thing with standin' in the corner like a rock."

"That's enough, Lance," Forge growled, interposing himself agiley between the two -- and there wasn't much room to interpose in. "You leave him alone . . . ah, you should, out of common decency, you got that?"

"Why? I've been 'ere long enough -- 'e's not an idiot, 'e doesn't need you." He bunched his long hands into fists, a tightness about his eyes. "Why protect 'im -- why do they protect you, Scott?"

That was the fun question, "I don't know," was the only answer he had.

"Be a man, Scott, call off the midget." He lightly punched Forge in the shoulder -- lightly, because for all his big words and angry eyes, he was scared.

Scott felt something that was almost like a fire in him at Lance's "attack," however slight, and gently, almost automatically, placed an elbow in Lance's skinny chest and pushed him backwards, away from Forge. "No call for that."

Lance grinned backward at Syl as the paleness of his cheeks became livid, "You're right, hon, 'e's got a fire in 'im. Whew, what a fire. 'E might have _bruised_ me if I'd stayed longer in the inferno!"

"That is enough, Lance," Jean said, finally wary. Scott sent a flare of annoyance in her direction -- she'd started it.

"What's wrong with conflict? Why shouldn't I question 'im? I've got the right to know why 'e's so aloof!"

"I'm not aloof," Scott said quickly.

"Oh? What's this standin' silently by yourself, then, what kind of statement are you makin'? Are you better than us?"

"No . . . I'm not making any kind of statement."

"Leave him alone," Forge rasped in exasperation, planting himself even more firmly in front of Scott. 

"I'm not going to leave him alone," Lance snapped, taking a step forward, his fists bunched again. "Isn't everyone in a group supposed to participate -- what does he lend to anythin', huh?"

"More than you," Scott growled, deeper in his throat than he usually did.

"Ah hah hah!" Lance swiped his forefinger upward, as if to announce an epiphone, "You hate makin' waves, don't you? That caused you pain, didn't it? Come on, gi' me the best you got!"

"Why are you doing this?" Scott asked as levely as he could, moving out from behind Forge. "Why?"

"It's my roots, I'm a wild plant, not a little plastic seedlin' like you. Your soil could use a little stirrin' up, all of this group could use some stirrin' up, but especially you. You don't think, you just stand."

"Scott's quiet, that doesn't make him stupid," Forge spat, and Jean made a noise that meant . . . nothing.

"Let's hear 'im say that, I want you quiet, dwarf, and you, too, Jean. Let 'im talk. So, what is it, Scott?"

"What do you want me to say?" And that was the wrong thing to ask, but Lance's barrage of lyric insults were hard for him to respond to -- how did one say one wasn't a plastic seedling?

"I wanna hear you say somethin' that shows me that there's somethin' in there, kiddo. Come on!"

Scott gnawed on the side of a fingernail, regarding Lance sidelong, and something of the fire returned, but it was twisted and wry and Scott's face twisted into an appropriate grimace. 

"I am a heartless banana."

Lance stared at him.

So did everyone else.

It got uncomfortable.

Scott, grimace whipping away from his face far quicker than it had arrived there, cleared his throat, "Um . . . so, Lance, what do you figure I have . . . in me? Based on, um . . . based on what I just said?"

"Was that supposed to be a joke?"

"Um . . . no, it's just to show I have something in me . . . it wasn't funny, just something."

Lance gritted his teeth audibly, "No, Scott," he said deliberately, "that's not what I meant. I want an actual statement from you, not something stupid and _inane_."

Forge opened her mouth and Lance waved him shut, "Make a statement!"

"On what?"

"I shouldn't have to tell you. Make one on whatever you want."

"But I already did. Bananas aren't good enough? I can't talk about fruit?"

Lance threw up his hands, but his eyes still smoldered, "Well, congratulations, you've shown me that you're at least capable of being a smart aleck."

Scott shrugged, "It wasn't intentional."

Lance had actually been half turned away, apparently fed up, at that moment, but suddenly whirled back, a cruel smile plastered all over his twitching face. Scott quietly wondered inside himself if Lance was taking medication, but the wondering was somewhat cut short by Lance's snarl, "It wasn't, was it?"

And somewhere inside himself, Scott was fed up, too. "No. So what? All that means is that I'm not you and you don't want me to be you, so there we go."

"That's really enough, Lance," Jean said.

"Ah . . . yeah, go find a wall to beat your head against."

Tari lifted his lip in Forge's direction, "I'm not done. We're just gettin' warmed up, aren't we, Scott?"

"I think we're done," Scott said levelly.

"Aw, I know you don't like this, darin' Scott. But we're not done. I've gotta get into the mentality, gotta really fit in. Gotta know what makes you tick -- and I figure you're the least common denominator of the group, so . . . "

"That's enough, Lance!" Forge shot forward in the same instant Lance slipped to one side, allowing the shorter kid to skitter past him.

"You, shut up, okay?" Lance drew back for a punch -- a heart felt one, this time, but Scott's hand caught the fist with thoughtless ease and pulled the arm and thus, the boy, back toward him.

"You need to stop doing that," Scott said and there was actually something like anger in his voice this time. Rather surprised him. "Stop riling up Forge. You both need to calm down for a minute. You know, don't say anything to each other."

"Don't you love that?" Lance ripped his hand out of Scott's, as if suddenly realizing that Scott wasn't particularly strong, for all his height. "He's got all the sweet simplicity of a child. 'You shouldn't hurt each other!'" 

"Well, it's true. You'll have to see us pretty constantly, Lance. If you try to tear up people every time they interrupt, it'll break down fast."

Lance laughed, "You all totally miss the point every time. No wonder you've been here so long." Lance finally seemed to have lost interest and returned to his couch, sinking down into it with a sullen expression, "I tell you, by the time I've been 'ere a month, I'll either be runnin' the place or outta 'ere. Whatever I do, it'll be twice of what any of you ever 'ave the nerve to try."

"Yeah yeah yeah, Lance," Forge parroted, with an odd edge to his voice. "You've proved yourself to be real brave already. Takes so much courage to pick a fight with someone who won't even fight back!"

Lance turned toward the inside of the couch and ignored him.

"It's all right," Scott said with a shrug as Forge gave him a questioning look, "He didn't hurt me . . . and he'll learn eventually. Don't bother about me, it just gets him mad."

Lance started to whistle, loudly. Scott considered that he really wasn't very scary at all. 

Forge snorted.

Jean yawned.

It was all pretty much back to normal. Save, Scott did feel a little braver himself. Perhaps, in another time, he might have strode awkwardly right over to Jean and expressed his true feelings. Fact was, he didn't really have true feelings for her, save that she was pretty, and he was ever so slightly disappointed that she'd more encouraged Lance than tried to stop him. Maybe Lance might have left him alone, otherwise. Perhaps she was laughing at _him_, more than Lance. 

It was too hard to tell and Scott didn't want to risk being laughed at again -- not twice in one day. 

And the minutes passed slowly and the two hours were over and the doors opened and that was that.

  


Scott returned to his room with his usual slouch and shambling gait and realized, rather belatedly, that there was still a bit of the "fire" as Jean called it, in him. At least, he wasn't feeling as dry as he usually did -- he didn't want to pull a Lance and kick against the doors of the world, but he wanted to do something. Nothing in particular . . . just something. Even if it was only breaking the lamp again. Perhaps living in darkness again would be worth it for the sake of a voluntary movement -- maybe something in Lance's jibes was right. Maybe he didn't live enough. Perhaps he could break his computer this time, or not eat his dinner -- but in a moment's rush of ideas, he decided that all of them were really very stupid and didn't make any sense.

Breaking something wasn't terribly useful to anyone, even yourself. And the average three year old could do the same thing.

But he needed to use the fire somehow, because he didn't know it well and he was afraid that it would leave before he could use it . . . and it would never come back. You never knew.

He entered his room and the door shut behind him. There was a bit of a trembling in the air, as if the air knew something was in him that was . . . different. As if it was trembling with inherent energy he hadn't noticed before -- that it was ready to be used, too, if one just knew what to do with it.

Knowing, knowing, knowing. Forge or Jean or Lance would know what to do. Scott just drew a blank. 

"Doo dee doo," he muttered flatly, gnawing the now thoroughly damp fingernail. 

The fire suddenly heightened and his hand dropped back to his side as his mouth slackened a little at the energy climbing up his body . . . doing and knowing ceased to be of much worry. The being, the feeling was enough to confuse him.

The air trembled very hard and Scott finally recognized that it wasn't trembling at all. He was.

The energy mounted, gathering under his esophagus and up and a thought flashed in the back of his mind_ Is this becoming a mutant_?

A sudden push against his skull and Scott gasped, his body reflexively arching backward, and it pushed again and through -- searing his thoughts to gibbering ash -- and escaped in a violent red flash out his eyes that knocked him sprawling against the wall.

Random impulses fired and misfired and collided randomly inside his brain for too long before he recovered himself, hurt, and gasping, and very much alive. 

"What . . . wow. Heh heh heh, wow! Wow!"

He stood up gingerly, brushing off his pants and grinning to himself. "I never knew -- that was incredible. I don't know what it was, but it was really incredible."

Is this becoming a mutant? hissed almost idly through his thoughts again -- and as if responding, the push began again, this time at his gut. 

The exhilaration petered into dread.

"Aaaaaaaaah . . . " He pressed himself back against the wall, gulping hard between whining breaths, "Aaaaaaaaah . . . " The push pressed bile into his throat and he tried to swallow and suddenly couldn't and it seemed all too likely that he was somehow going to die . . . 

"Help!" he shrieked . . . weakly, airless, "Help me!" and then the bile was there, choking him, and the push burned through his skull again and flailed him so hard against the wall that he briefly lost consciousness.

His eyes were still open when his mind returned to him and they hurt terribly with pressure. He raised a hand to rub at them . . . and stopped.

The world was tinged red.

There was no other color.

"Crap," Scott said, chewing the inside of his mouth, more curious than frightened, but certainly frightened enough. He blinked very slowly, twice . . . and the color remained.

"Aah . . . yes, crap." He tried to stand up when the fog rolled in.

Fog -- in a tightly contained room . . . fog that smelt very bad and made him feel dizzy before it even reached him. He already had a vague idea of what it might actually be as it curled rapidly over his feet, but it was already too late. His mind flickered out like a dunked candle.

  



	2. And then the second

Lance hated the buzz and he hated the Group Room. Really, it was bad enough to be ripped away from your home, what little home it was, and placed in this sterile and homicidally dull place, without having to share it with a bunch of equally dull people who would laugh at you for thinking something other than the drab nothingnesses _they_ thought. Conversation was impossible and he could only content himself by laughing harder then they did, overwhelming them with the sheer power of his contempt. Except, that didn't work either. Or, it might have, if it was only Jean. After all, Jean liked him -- he didn't actually have contempt for Jean. If they'd been alone together, it would have been okay, because Lance suspected that Jean was hiding her strong affection for him and her non-conformist tendencies out of fear. If the others hadn't been there -- no, if Forge hadn't been there -- Lance was sure the Group Room would be more of a pleasure. One of those "rise above your situations and change the world through love" kinda things. Or maybe not, but it would be better one way or another, he was absolutely sure of that.

It was Forge that destroyed it. Forge, who mocked everything he said and looked down on his art and on _him _for wanting to change things. As if changing things was stupid. Lance would have hit him yesterday if Scott hadn't gotten in the way -- just to wipe all that confidence off his ratty face. He wouldn't be so confident if he knew anything -- Forge thought he was smart, but he didn't really _know_ anything. Lance knew things -- he'd lived outside the cage, he knew what it was like outside the cage. He knew what the rest of the group was missing. He knew that they should be raging against the cage, beating against its walls, no matter how futile it was. That was nature -- but these people didn't know what nature was.

Nonetheless, Forge was a person and he fit into the scheme of things as they should be one way or another. Lance figured that he could show Jean and even Forge what nature was eventually. It'd be hard, but worth it -- to have allies who really were smart and didn't just think they were. Allies who would share his anger and make it stronger -- enough that they could escape in one way or another. Come to think of it, it was _Scott_ that he didn't think would bend, because he didn't think Scott was any kind of person at all. The others couldn't see it, because they'd always lived with Scott and he was normal to them. Lance knew better. The grey skin patches and flat eyes had to be the result of genetic conditioning -- that just didn't happen. The placid passiveness didn't happen either. Scott was a construct, Lance was sure of that. There to keep the others down by making passivity look okay or inevitable. The fact that the others defended Scott when Lance challenged his highly doubtful human nature (to be human is to act!) showed that the ploy had worked -- but that would change. Lance would find different tactics, maybe. But maybe the attacks would work if he continued them -- or maybe if he caught Forge by surprise, against the wall, maybe, and hurt him (a little) before anyone could do anything. Then, when Scott didn't react, maybe he could convince the others . . . no, that wouldn't work, they'd turn on him. Forge wouldn't understand that it was all _necessary_ and would fight back and maybe Jean would think Lance was too brutal and that couldn't happen.

The buzz sounded again and Lance ignored it as long as he could until they sent the electricity into the floor and shocked him. He cursed loudly at the monitors he was sure were there . . . somewhere . . . until the shock came again, stronger, and he left the room, hating himself for retreating.

To his great surprise, when he finally entered the Group Room Jean was the only one there.

He gaped at her for a long moment as she stretched out longer on the couch, hitching her shoulders and yawning as if nothing was amiss. She was beautiful and alone and Lance was very normal in some respects, even if none of the others were yet.

But it was not the time to flirt.

"Where's the others?" he asked tersely.

"Don't know. Sleeping, sick, or maybe it's happened -- what always happens eventually."

"What?"

She shrugged, a very careful, measured shrug that kept Lance's attention so well he scarcely heard the dragging footsteps until they had stopped and were in the room itself. Then, he looked up, reluctantly . . . and there was Forge, his head hanging and back hunched as if he'd been whacked in the gut. His glasses hung disregarded from one ear. 

Lance's jaw hung open as Forge began to shuffle again, the glasses swaying to one side, than another, and Lance couldn't understand how they remained _on._ Forge only shuffled long enough to press against the wall and sink to the floor, letting his head fall into his hands. The glasses finally cracked audibly against the ground.

The scene was so odd that Lance didn't know what to say.

Forge saved him the trouble.

"Where's Scott?" he mumbled through his fingers.

"Haven't seen him," Lance said curtly, just to feel more comfortable.

"No?" Forge dropped his hands into his lap, although his face remained shadowed. "Not at all? Have they come -- ah, the faceless ones?"

"Just us . . . why are you so late?"

"Just am," Forge said dully, snatching his glasses by the earpiece and flinging them hard against the tile. A lens shattered instantly, scattering clear-plastic-glass in a small radius.

"Forge!" Jean barked, startled.

"No. No, no no. It's only a matter of minutes now, I'm sure. I'm very sure."

"What are you talking about?" Lance asked.

"It's too late . . . too late . . . if he's not here, they'll be coming. One of them will be coming."

"Oh," Jean said loudly. "Well. Nothing to be upset about, then. The worst, he's gone on to a far more interesting place. We should be _glad_ for him."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Lance insisted, incensed at being completely left out.

"Scott might have become a mutant -- maybe you're not that far in your Learnings yet, Lance?" Jean stretched again, no hint of change in her expression -- there seldom was.

"A mutant?" Lance hadn't touched his "Learnings," and he certainly had never heard this particular term used like _that._

"Yeah, a mutant. Don't know a thing about being one, except it's probably more interesting."

"A mutant?" Lance repeated.

"Yes! What's wrong?"

"That's not . . . that's weird. That's not _possible._"

"You know something we don't, Lance?"

"Man." Lance ran a hand through his hair, eyeing the oddly silent Forge suspiciously. Surely know-it-all Forge knew _this._ "A mutation . . . see, it's when there's something wrong in the genetic code and the person born has somethin' wrong with them. Scott's probably a _mutant_ . . . normal people don't have that kind of complexion . . . but you don't just randomly _become_ one. You don't go mutating _more_. It doesn't 'appen!"

"Hmmm . . . fascinating." 

Lance gaped at her again. Didn't she _care?_ This would make an interesting _conversation, _if nothing else!

"Where's Scott?" Forge asked almost inaudibly in his corner. 

And there _was_ something wrong about it all.

The sudden influx of darker and harder footsteps from Scott's doorway was almost a relief.

"Oh no," Forge moaned, but stood up, if his eyes still remained lowered.

A tall figure -- a faceless guy, as everyone here called them -- walked stridently in, his eyes moving behind his heavy cloth mask. Those eyes sifted past Lance and Jean to land on Forge. He just watched Forge for a while and there was something about his presence that made it impossible to ask questions or even move, really. Finally, the faceless guy sighed, a remarkably human sound for something like that.

"Scott has become a mutant, Forge."

__

Why's he only talking to him_?_

"I know," Forge snarled (_snarled?_) raggedly, his small hands clenched. "I _know._"

"How do you know?"

"Inference. He's not here. That's what that always means."

"You didn't move very quickly this morning, Forge -- why?"

__

Wait . . . if they had to shock me twice and I got here a good bit before Forge . . . must of practically stood his hair up. Lance might have enjoyed the image any other time, but something _was wrong._

"I was tired. Couldn't sleep."

"It was abberant behavior, Forge. I want you to look at me and tell me why you didn't get up."

"I've lost my glasses . . . it won't do any good."

"You broke your glasses, Forge."

"Maybe."

"Why did you break your glasses, Forge?"

Forge exhaled, a long shuddering breath that shook his body. Lance took an involuntary step backward.

"I don't know . . . sir."

"Look at me, Forge. You can follow my voice and your vision isn't that bad."

"I don't want to . . . _sir._"

"Are you angry about your friend, Forge?"

"Maybe."

"Why? It can't be helped. You will go through the same process soon enough."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do we, Forge. We don't want to keep you and your friends here, but we have no choice. Things will change, eventuallly -- but we need your help. We need you to listen to us. It's okay to be angry, Forge, but you have to realize that we can see more than you."

For the first time, Lance felt a certain affinity for Forge -- wanted to walk over there by him and stand up to the faceless guy that was trying to cow him with words, make him obey. For the first time, Forge seemed a rebel, a kicker, like him -- who wouldn't break or back down, someone to be admired. Lance wanted to help him . . . to at least put in an appropriately fierce and angry word.

But he couldn't move or speak.

Although he couldn't admit it, he was terrified.

"No . . . no, you can't."

"We can't, Forge? We've had years of experience -- we know what's happening to you. Please, don't hurt yourself to fight us."

"I'm not trying to. I understand. Scott's gone. You can go now."

"I want you to look at me first, Forge."

"No."

Forge backed against the wall, his fists clenched.

"Forge . . . please, this isn't hard. We'll get you new glasses and everything -- just look at me and I'll be gone."

"I won't."

__

What is he doing? 

"I don't want to have to use force, Forge." The tall man began to approach Forge, his hands out, palms up. "Just look up!"

"_No!_"

Lance cringed as the man shot out and grabbed the much much smaller Forge under the chin and yanked it up . . . and his expression froze in that position as he saw exactly what was happening.

Forge's eyes were sheer white, bereft of iris, pupils, anything.

"Well . . . " the man said, his fingers making tight lines along Forge's jaw. "Well."

"Blood-sucking _jackal_!" Forge spat through clenched teeth, shifting hard and uselessly in the man's grasp. "Young-eater! Dung sifter!"

"Creative," the man said with chilly amusement, his other hand closing firmly on Forge's upper arm. "Very. Come now, Forge. It's time."

"I'll _kill _you, I swear--"

The hand gripping the jaw moved up to hold it shut. The man shook his head apologetically at the motionless remaining members of the group as he dragged Forge toward a door Lance hadn't noticed before. "This happens occasionally. It's not half as bad as he thinks it is. Right, Forge?" With a muffled cry, Forge kicked him hard in the shin with the side of her foot -- the man didn't seem to notice. "You're both welcome to leave in a few minutes! Consider it a holiday!" He vanished into that door, which seemed to just suddenly . . . not be there and, except for the mild rustling echo in the air, it might have just . . . never happened.

Lance blinked, once, twice . . . and turned toward Jean, stiffly -- his muscles were painful and creaked.

"What . . . what . . . what just . . . what was that?"

Jean didn't say anything, merely swung her legs off the couch and paused there, half sitting, and for all her lounging position, as tense as Scott had ever been.

Lance bit his lip -- too hard.

"I . . . think I'm scared."

"Yeah? That's good of you." There was so much _loathing_ in her voice that Lance shivered and dragged his eyes to the glittering fragments of Forge's glasses, unable to raise them again until Jean's footsteps had petered off into her hallway and the door rapped shut. 


End file.
